


What Lies Beneath

by punkfaery



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Odin's A+ Parenting, Psychological Horror, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Slow Burn, all that fun stuff, at talking, basically everyone is awful at communicating with each other and i am enjoying myself, loki has a very bad time in this fic, loki is probably the worst of them all, odin is terrible, questionable use of mythology, thor is not too great either but at least he's trying, with words
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4986256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkfaery/pseuds/punkfaery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Loki - brother, put the Casket down!"  Thor said urgently, and Loki heard him take a step nearer, his boot scraping the tiles. "Something is wrong - it's doing something to you, look at your hands - "</p><p>"It's not doing anything to me," Loki snapped. "I can't think what you're talking about." But he opened his eyes all the same. And looked down.</p><p>His first, foolish belief was that somebody else had entered the vault with them, and had taken hold of the Casket somehow without his noticing; however, that could not be right, for only one pair of hands was grasping the shimmering blue cube, and he could still feel its coolness on his own palms. Loki stared for several seconds, struggling to fit together the mismatched puzzle before him. Hands. Blue hands. Ridged all over with rough, spiralling marks. </p><p>His.</p><p>---</p><p>Or: Loki finds out about his true heritage a little earlier, and a sequence of bad decisions are made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel. If I did, Black Widow might have her own movie by now. 
> 
> Note: This is actually the first piece of writing (fanfiction or otherwise) that I have done in almost three years, and my first ever Marvel fic, which is...kind of exciting! (For me, anyway.) Main inspirations include this awesome gifset from tumblr (http://thorduna.tumblr.com/post/121515075065/thorloki-au-lokis-newest-mischief-convincing), ThePianoGuys' version of "Rolling in the Deep", and my pretty much constant state of being Loki trash. Also the song "Flawed Design" by Stabilo, which - if you also happen to be Loki trash - you might want to listen to and cry about. I do that sometimes.

"A quick-tempered person may commit foolish acts,  
but the one who devises evil schemes is hated.

"The righteousness of the perfect directs his way,  
but the wicked shall fall by his own wickedness.

"The light of the righteous shines,  
but the lamp of the wicked shall be extinguished."

-From the _Proverbs of Solomon_

* * *

 

Over the course of his life, Loki had systematically compiled a list of all the things that the Allfather had told him and his brother that they must never, ever do, and then proceeded to do them. Sometimes alone, and sometimes with the aid of Thor, who never turned down an opportunity for a new thrill. He had completed the penultimate one last week. Summoning up the spirit of Horsyth in his chambers had required several moons of hard study, but he had eventually managed it. The trickiest part had been getting rid of the scorch marks on the floorboards afterwards. 

Until Odin came up with some more ideas for things that were strictly forbidden and should never be attempted under any circumstances, only one item was left on the list. All he needed to do was wait for the opportune moment. 

* * *

"How did you manage to dispose of the guards, again?" Thor said. 

They were standing at the top of the stairs that led down into the weapons vault, looking down into the black gap underneath them. Usually heavily guarded and lit with a cold grey light of indeterminate source, it was now dark and deserted, much like any other dungeon or storeroom. An icy draught wafted up to them from below. 

"Oh, I just pulled a few strings here and there," Loki said airily. "You'd be surprised how many of them were glad to get the day off." 

Thor laughed, and Loki felt a surge of gratification. "Shall I light the way?" he said, already lifting his hands in preparation. 

"That would be a good idea, unless you want us both to slip and break our necks," Thor said dryly. 

Loki concentrated, and a golden ball of light rose from between his fingers and hovered before them, before slowly beginning to descend the stairs. They followed it, treading carefully so as not to lose their footing. As the darkness around them closed in, the light became brighter, growing in size until the walls on either side of them were illuminated. 

Close to the foot of the stairs, however, its golden glow mingled with another - this one a cold, dancing blue, like dawnlight on frost. Following the light to its source, Loki's eyes found the object that he had seen illustrated so many times in old legends and tales, and felt a curious shiver go down his spine. 

"The Casket of Ancient Winters," Thor said, also halting in his tracks to stare. "I have not seen it since we were both children. Do you suppose it's as powerful as Father claims?" 

"Supposedly, it contains the fury of a thousand killing winters," Loki said. "But you know how people exaggerated back then." 

"To harness that kind of power..." Thor said, gazing hungrily at it. 

"If it's power you want, there's plenty in here that should appeal to you," Loki pointed out. He jabbed a random finger at one of the left-hand alcoves. "The Eternal Flame. Once weaponised by Surtur himself. Just think about it. You'd never have to light candles by hand again." He gestured to the right. "And here we have the Orb of Agamotto, charmed to peer into any time, location and dimension of your choice. You could probably use it to watch Sif taking a bath." 

"I don't want to watch Sif in the bath," said Thor, horrified. "Can you imagine what she would do to me if she found out?" 

"Vividly," said Loki. 

Thor snorted. 

For a second they just stood together on the stairs, mesmerised by that iridescent light. Then Thor moved abruptly forward, taking the last two stairs in one step and striding swiftly towards the Casket. 

"Now, you'd better not be planning on opening that," Loki said, hurrying after him. "I know you have a flair for the dramatic, but freezing the whole of Asgard in a deadly snowstorm _might_ be bordering on the extreme."

"Don't be ridiculous, brother," Thor said, already nearing the stand. "I am no fool. I merely wish to touch it." He reached out. 

"Wait!" Loki said sharply. "Allow me to go first." 

Thor turned to him, narrowing his eyes. "That's unlike you. Why?" 

Loki stiffened. _Unlike you_. Unlike you to put yourself at risk, to volunteer for something potentially dangerous, to take the initiative. Unlike you to be _brave_. "It may be shielded with some form of spellwork," he said, working to keep his voice level. "I should be able to remove the wards so that it does not harm us when we lift it." 

"You are truly capable of that?" Thor said, sounding reluctantly impressed.

"Well, we won't know unless I try," Loki said. 

Thor gave him a considered look. "All right, then," he said, "try. But I want to go after you, all right?" 

"I won't be a moment," Loki said, moving towards the stand upon which the Casket rested. 

His reasons for going first, of course, had little to do with breaking any protective charms; if there were any, they would likely be far too powerful and complex for him to remove so quickly. Rather, he had reasoned that if the Casket did turn out to be warded, and Thor was hurt, there would be only one person to blame - the mysteriously unharmed (and almost universally disliked) second son. Although Thor was known amongst the populace for his love of danger, Loki was known as the one who led him into it, and it was not a reputation he was keen to build upon. The aim here was not to damn himself; it was to prove to the Allfather that Thor was reckless, foolhardy, unworthy of the throne. Loki was confident that, should he be the injured party, he would have little trouble in crafting a scenario of the irresponsible older brother dragging his younger sibling into a forbidden area, and bringing injury to him in the process. 

The Casket sat innocently before him, its eerie glow sending flickering blue shadows across the walls. For a minute, he hesitated. He himself had never touched it, despite the occasional covert explorations he had made of the weapons vault during his younger years. Nor had he seen the Allfather lay hands upon it, for all that he had lectured them on its history and value. He had no idea of the effects it might have on Aesir skin. Perhaps it would burn, or shrivel; perhaps his hands would merely be repelled by some kind of force-field. 

As his hands hovered over it, though, he became aware of Thor's hulking presence at his back, emanating an air of tense expectancy. He could almost hear the mocking comments that would no doubt follow his hesitation. _What in the Nine is the matter, brother? Too cowardly to lay your hands on a mere relic? Here, allow me to do it - I daresay it will not dare to scorch the flesh of a_ true _warrior_ \- 

Gritting his teeth, he reached out and slid his hands underneath the Casket. It was not as heavy as he had expected, but this realisation was quickly replaced by another sensation - a kind of chilliness that radiated from the blue, swirling mass contained within that iron frame, numbing his hands and beginning to creep steadily up his forearms. It was not uncomfortable in the least; if anything, it was rather refreshing. He lifted the Casket fully from its stand and closed his eyes, allowing the coolness to envelop him fully. 

"Well, what does it feel like?" he heard Thor ask impatiently from behind him. 

"Hush," Loki replied, absently. The coolness really was very pleasant. It was, in fact, not unlike coming indoors after a long sparring session in the midday sun and plunging into an icy bath. Strange tingles were running up and down his arms, like the static electricity that Thor sometimes gave off after calling up a storm. 

"Loki," Thor said. His voice was suddenly tight and anxious. 

"What?" Loki said, unable to keep a trace of irritation from his voice. Thor's voice was like a needle puncturing the blissful bubble that had enveloped him when he lifted the Casket. He did not want Thor to ask him questions, he did not wish to converse; he wanted simply to be left, holding the Casket to his chest, suffused in its icy blue light... 

"Loki - brother, put it down!" Thor said urgently, and Loki heard him take a step nearer, his boot scraping the marble tiles. "Something is wrong - it's doing something to you, look at your hands - " 

"It's not doing anything to me," Loki snapped, "I can't think what you're talking about. " But he opened his eyes all the same. And looked down. 

His first, foolish belief was that somebody else had entered the vault with them, and had taken hold of the Casket somehow without his noticing; however, that could not be right, for only one pair of hands was grasping the shimmering blue cube, and he could still feel its coolness on his own palms. Loki stared for several seconds, struggling to fit together the mismatched puzzle before him. Hands. Blue hands. Ridged all over with rough, spiralling marks. 

His. 

"Put it _down!"_ Thor said, snapping Loki out of his daze, and he seized the other side of the Casket from Loki. The sudden movement, and the shock of what he was seeing, caused Loki to abruptly release his hold, and Thor staggered backwards, almost dropping the Casket on the floor. He fumbled with it for a minute before regaining his grip. They stared at one another across the vault, Thor breathing hard, Loki wide-eyed and motionless.

"Are - are you well?" Thor asked into the stillness. There was a hesitancy to his voice that Loki could not remember hearing before. If pressed, he would have called it discomfort - even fear. But that was ridiculous, for everyone knew that the Mighty Thor was afraid of nothing. Loki did not reply, but lifted one hand up, examining it closely. 

Even as he watched, the unnatural colour began to fade, his ordinary flesh tone reappearing from beneath the sleeve of his coat, the blue retreating towards his fingertips and vanishing altogether. Yet despite the normal colour, they still seemed alien - a stranger's hands grafted crudely on to his own wrists. 

"What was that?" Thor said. 

"I don't know," Loki answered. His voice sounded strange in his ears. 

Thor moved towards the stand and carefully replaced the Casket, then turned his own hands palm upward to examine them. "Mine haven't changed," he said, sounding almost curious. "Why did yours?" 

"I don't know," Loki said again. 

Enthusiasm entirely dulled, they made their way in silence towards the entrance, and began to climb the stairs. Loki could feel Thor's eyes on him and knew he was longing to demand further information; however, he himself was in no mood for questions. Even if he had been, there were no answers that he would have been able to provide. He could feel a multitude of thoughts vying for his attention, but they were whirring far too quickly for him to make any sort of sense of them. Only one thing remained fixed - the rolling, nauseous feeling in his stomach, as though he had fallen suddenly from a dizzying height. 

When they reached the top of the stairs, Thor said tentatively, "Should we - Father may want to know - " 

"No," said Loki, before he had even finished getting the words out. "He need not hear of this. There is likely to be a perfectly reasonable explanation, after all."  The words sounded false even to him, but his mind was not clear enough to fashion a convincing lie.

"But - " 

"Besides," Loki interrupted, pulling the ace from his sleeve, "you said it yourself - it _is_ your coronation in just under a moon. We mustn't do anything to jeopardise that."

Seeing Thor's face change, he added more softly, "I would not endanger your day of triumph, brother." 

Thor still looked torn, but after a moment his expression settled into something closer to resignation. "I suppose you are right." 

"Aren't I always?" 

"Perhaps after the coronation, then?" Thor said. 

"Perhaps," Loki conceded. "We shall see. After all, it may be nothing of import." He turned to go. 

"Loki - " 

"What?"

Thor hesitated, looking uncharacteristically out of his depth. There was something there in his gaze, something unfamiliar that had been there back in the weapons vault when - 

"You would tell me if - if anything was wrong, wouldn't you?" Thor said. 

Loki forced a laugh. It came out thin and breathless. "What prompted this?" 

"You _know_ what. What happened in the vault just now - " 

"As I said, it's nothing of import," Loki said. "I am perfectly well, brother, as you can see - " he displayed his hands _(stranger's hands not mine not mine not)_ \- "so you need not concern yourself." 

Thor looked as though he wanted to say something else, but was restraining himself. "As you say, brother," he replied eventually. "I will see you at dinner, then." 

"Yes," said Loki, not bothering to embroider the farewell any more than that, and headed off down the right-hand corridor, Thor's eyes still lingering at his back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! University applications have been killing me recently, so I haven't had much time for writing. I'll do my best to get the next part up more quickly. Endless thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos on the last chapter - you are all fine, fine people, and you will be spared when the revolution comes.

Upon reaching his chambers, Loki cancelled the locking charms with a thought and stepped inside. It was mercifully quiet and dim, the drapes pulled across the windows although it was past midday. Loki went swiftly to his bed and sat, then allowed himself to slump down on his back, staring up at the arched ceiling.

The numbness of shock was beginning to wear off now. Closing his eyes, he struggled to calm himself, but the attempt was as fruitless as it had ever been. _Control yourself,_ he thought savagely, but his breathing was already quickening and his heart was hammering in his ears. The whirring of his thoughts had not slowed; if anything it had increased in speed. The inside of his head was a horrible nauseous hum, as though it had been filled with flies.

 _There may be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this,_ he told himself sternly. _Perhaps it is merely a defence mechanism, a charm to deter thieves..._

But if that were the case, why hadn't it worked on Thor?

Once again, Loki lifted his hand up above his face and stared at it. In the low light, the colour was admittedly difficult to make out, but it certainly did not look _blue,_ and the skin was as smooth and unmarked as it had ever been. He turned it slowly from side to side, noticing as he did that it was shaking infinitesimally.

A knock came at his door.

"Who is it?" Loki called out, relieved to hear that his voice, at least, was steady.

"Prince Loki?" a voice asked from behind the door. "The Allfather demands your presence in his chambers."

Loki was silent for a moment.

"Prince Loki?"

"Tell him I'm on my way," Loki said.

"I'll let him know right away, your highness," came the relieved voice, and there was the pattering sound of footsteps moving away. Loki, still on his back, took a deep breath in, held it for as long as he could, and then let it out again slowly.

There was nothing to be done, after all.

* * *

 

"You wanted to see me, Father?" Loki said, standing in the entrance to Odin's study.

"Ah, there you are. I thought you'd never get here." Odin, seated in his high-backed golden chair, did not turn around. As per usual, Loki found it impossible to tell whether or not his father was joking. He shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, come in, then - sit down." Odin waved an impatient hand.

Loki seated himself opposite Odin, on the other side of the curved table, which was strewn with papers. Many, he noticed, were ornately decorated, or bore official seals from foreign kingdoms. Folding his hands in his lap, he waited for Odin to speak.

After scribbling his signature at the bottom of several documents, Odin finally looked up, fixing Loki with his good eye. "Now, I imagine you know why I've called you here today," he said.

Loki didn't, but he could guess. "Thor's coronation."

The Allfather nodded approvingly. "The amount of preparation that goes into such an event, as I'm sure you can envisage, is monumental. For this reason I will be needing your assistance on certain matters - if you can spare it."

"It would be my pleasure," Loki said. "What sort of matters were you thinking of?"

"To begin with, I will need you to compose a letter to the chief ambassador of Nornheim, inviting him to attend the ceremony," said Odin, sliding a sheaf of paper and a quill across the table for Loki to make notes. "It is a somewhat thorny affair, I'm afraid - I don't know if you recall that small altercation over borders a decade or so ago - "

"Yes, I remember it," Loki said. "So - something flattering, then? Appealing to his better nature, a show of willingness to let bygones be bygones, that sort of thing?"

"Take care not to be too obvious about it," Odin warned him. "He is more sensitive to manipulation of that kind than most." Loki nodded, showing that he understood. "Now, in addition to that..."

As they spoke, Loki couldn't help but be aware of the dark shadows beneath his father's good eye and within the contours of his face. Had they always been there, he wondered, or was Odin looking wearier recently? It was impossible to tell: his father's back was as straight it had ever been, and his voice as commanding.

At length, the conversation drew to a close.

"Well, that seems to be everything," Odin said, rifling through the papers once more. "Thank you for your assistance in this, Loki. You may go."

Loki bowed his head respectfully and stood. There was a curious itching sensation in his palms, one which had been present throughout their meeting but had only just come to the fore of his observation. He surreptitiously rubbed them against his coat, but the itching did not fade. Instead, it seemed to worsen. He thought of blue skin, ridged like the bark of an oak tree.

"Was there anything else you wished to ask me?" Odin said pointedly, noticing that Loki was still standing there.

Loki opened his mouth, and then closed it.

 _Should_ he tell Odin? Although his whole being revolted against the idea, he knew that if there was some sort of curse upon the Casket, his father - gifted as he was with the wisdom of Ymir himself - would know how to remove it. And even if he could not, at least Loki would at least have answers. The worst part of this whole affair was the not-knowing _._ Loki _detested_ not knowing things. He was on the point of opening his mouth again to speak when he pictured the expression on Odin's face when he heard of Loki's trespassing in the vault, and faltered.

But on the other hand - hadn't Odin given him his trust when he asked him to carry out these tasks for him? And wouldn't a confession of disobedience, voiced now, be little more than a flagrant betrayal of that trust?

"Loki?" Odin said, his voice now carrying a distinct tinge of irritation.

Loki made up his mind.

"No," he said, "there wasn't anything, Father."

"Good day, then," Odin said, giving him another nod. "And tell that brother of yours to make his way over here as well. I have much to discuss with him."

"Oh," Loki said stupidly. "Then - then he is also required to help with these coming arrangements?"

"Naturally," Odin said dryly. "Thor may believe that since he is soon to be crowned king, he may neglect his duties in favour of more enjoyable pastimes, but he is mistaken. All in this family have their part to play in the coming weeks. Fetch him for me, would you?"

There was a hollow sensation in Loki's chest; though it was familiar, he was unsure of its cause, and so did his best to ignore it. "Of course, Father."

Odin made a gesture that was undeniably one of dismissal. Not wishing to squander any more of his father's time, Loki beat a hasty retreat.

* * *

 

He was halfway through a complex tome on the theory of soul-binding when the itching started up again.

It was not a painful sort of an itch, but rather a mild tingling sensation like pins-and-needles. He clenched and unclenched his fists, but it made no difference. Before he knew it, he was scrubbing hard at his hands and wrists as though trying to work off a particularly viscous substance. Long, raised red lines began forming, but he continued to scratch anyway. It felt as though he had plunged both his forearms into a nest of wasps.

Then, quite abruptly, Loki caught sight of himself in the elaborate mirror across from his bed, bent forwards, twisting his own hands frenetically together, and started. Was that really him? That strange, hunched creature with ugly black strands of hair falling around a sallow face? Disquieted, Loki raised his hands - now welted with nail-marks - to his head, and smoothed his hair back, tucking in the strands until it resembled its usual neat shape. There - that was better.

Or was it? In some indefinable way, Loki thought, the reflection still did not look like _him._ It had his countenance, certainly, and moved when he moved; however, some crucial aspect of it appeared to have shifted, making it not unrecognisable, but certainly unfamiliar. He watched it for several moments, waiting to see if it would make some movement or sign that would give it away, but it merely stared back at him, implacable.

 _I'm being a fool,_ he thought, and turned his attention once again to the book of magical theory beside his bed.

He was soon so engrossed that it was several hours before he noticed that it was dark outside, and that his eyes had begun to grow heavy. Two of Asgard's three moons were visible through the full-length windows that led out to the balcony. Their positions indicated that it was already closer to morning than to evening. Closing the book, he stowed it under his pillow - an old habit from the days when he had shared a room with Thor, who liberally borrowed any of his possessions that seemed interesting without feeling the need to ask permission.

The last thing he did before retiring to bed was to go to the mirror, lift it carefully from its hook, and turn it to the wall.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. So much for getting the next part up more quickly, huh? I really have no excuse for the lateness of this chapter other than being a) out of practise with regards to writing fiction, b) creatively blocked and c) insanely busy with work and college. But here's a nice long chapter to make up for it. Hope you all enjoy!

The feasting hall was, as usual, crowded to the rafters. The clamour was overwhelming - a thousand different conversations mingled with laughter and the clink of cutlery, almost masking the crackle of the fire in the centre of the hall over which a dead boar hung on a spit, turning slowly.

The evening had begun well enough. Loki had found himself seated next to a nobleman from Vanaheim, who had been happy to speak about the unusually rapid rise in silk prices so long as someone was listening, and did not appear to care overmuch what the other person had to say on the matter. This suited Loki perfectly; small talk did not come easily to him, especially in his current mood, and the man's incessant conversation had somewhat eased the buzz of his thoughts. Now, though, the nobleman was speaking animatedly to a bearded warrior on his left, leaving Loki to pick at his food in silence.

He had been pushing a chunk of meat aimlessly around his plate for several minutes when he suddenly became aware of a hush beginning to fall over the room, like snow blanketing a village. Looking up, he saw to his surprise that Odin was no longer seated. Instead, he was on his feet at the head of the grandest table, and seemed to be preparing to make a speech.

"It must be about Prince Thor's coronation," he distinctly heard a woman saying knowledgeably to her companion. "I can hardly believe the Allfather is stepping down, you know - he looks as though the years have barely touched him."

"How long now until Prince Thor is crowned?"

"A moon - if that."

Odin rapped sharply on the floor with Gungnir, three times, and the murmuring stopped.

"Friends!" Odin cried, his voice somehow carrying effortlessly across the massive expanse of the room. "It is truly joyous to see you gathered together all in Asgard once again, particularly those of you who have travelled so far from other realms to be here with us. However - " and here he paused, "it is my unfortunate duty to cloud this occasion with bearings of bad tidings."

A buzzing began to spread across the hall. Several feet away, the dead boar revolved slowly to face Loki, fixing him with its glassy stare. He looked away.

"Few of you will know this," Odin was saying, the candlelight gleaming off his golden eyepatch, "but not all here are loyal to the realm of Asgard. It is a dark time indeed when this kingdom - jewel of the Nine, the centre of Yggdrassil itself - is no longer a safe haven, and yet this corruption is precisely what I must unravel today. My people, we have a traitor in our midst."

"Surely not!" someone exclaimed dramatically. Several muffled giggles broke out.

"It is so," Odin confirmed.

Seated beside him, her tawny hair caught up in a complicated knot of braids, Frigga seemed utterly unruffled by this turn of events. It was as though she had known it was coming, but surely, thought Loki, she could not have. They usually shared everything, from salacious political scandals to their opinions on Thor's latest misadventure. Loki could not understand why she would have kept silent on such a momentous matter.

Odin was still speaking. "The corruption of which I speak is due, I must confess, to a grievous oversight on my part. Though the wisdom I have been gifted with has remained pure and true, it is not indefatigable.

"It brings me great sorrow to say that the traitor of whom I speak is none other than one of our own - Loki of Asgard."

The silence this time was complete.

Loki, still seated, did not move. He was stunned. He felt utterly numb. Dimly, he wondered if he had somehow misheard Odin, but he was all too aware of a sea of faces turning to look, of people further away getting to their feet to crane over at him.

"For centuries," Odin announced, speaking louder so that he could be heard over the rising tide of anger, "this cuckoo, this snake, has hidden in plain sight, vilely plotting in the shadows. For centuries, he has masqueraded as one of royal birth, with none of us any the wiser to the monster that lies beneath. For centuries, his insidious words have poisoned our wholesome nation, bringing us naught but war, ruin, and death. But no longer! _No longer!"_

The noise in the hall was almost deafening now, and Loki was still frozen where he sat, still numb, still unbelieving. The fire seemed to be growing hotter and hotter; his skin was prickling, a line of sweat sliding down his back, under his shirt.

"For centuries, he has lied to us. NO LONGER!" Odin roared. "This kingdom must be _cleansed!_ My people, the time has come to lance this wound in Asgard's hide before it infects us all!"

Hands were on him then, tearing at his hair, his clothing. He raised an arm to shield his face, but it was knocked away almost immediately. He heard Sif's voice in amongst the shouting: "Grab him!" she was saying, half-laughing. "Serves him right for what he did to my hair!" At some point he had been dragged from his chair; the floor was cold beneath his left cheek. In the space between two laughing young men, he saw Thor standing with his arms folded, his blue eyes glittering with satisfaction.

 

* * *

 

Loki came awake in the dark of his chamber with his sheets tangled around his head. He clawed them away and struggled to sit up, breathing in moaning gasps.

 _Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream,_ he chanted to himself, but he could still feel their hot hands wrenching at him, could still hear the echo of Odin's voice bellowing, _"This kingdom must be cleansed!"_

It took him several attempts to conjure up a light, but when it finally flickered into life he felt his gulping breaths begin to ease. His chamber was empty. The only shadows on the wall came from the piles of books heaped up in their familiar form of organised chaos. No yelling citizens. No laughing Sif. No dead-eyed Thor.

Unexpectedly, this last absence was not as much of a relief as he had hoped it would be. Whilst the Thor of his dream, with his cold gaze and mirthless smile, was most definitely an unwelcome figure, Loki found there was a reprehensible part of him that yearned for his brother's company. As a child, he had often run to Thor in the wake of a nightmare, taking refuge in his brother's room until that unnamed terror, that hideous lurching sense of _wrongness,_ had evaporated. In truth, Thor had complained just as often as he had reassured - but he had never failed to let him in.

Quashing the old, shameful urge unmercifully, Loki got to his feet and padded across the room. Although his eyes prickled with tiredness, the thought of banishing the light and lying awake in the oppressive darkness of his chamber until sleep returned was intolerable. Selecting a random book from the shelf, he returned to his bed, lay down - on his front this time - and began to read.

Despite his vow to remain awake until morning, he must have drifted off eventually, because when he awoke his head was resting awkwardly on the open book, a trickle of grey light was seeping around the edges of the drapes, and Thor was hammering on his bedroom door.

At least, Loki assumed it was Thor, because no one else would have gone on knocking that loudly and determinedly for so long. He remained lying there in the vague hope that Thor would get the message and go away, but the noise only got louder.

Sighing, he went over and opened the door. Thor, caught in mid-knock, very nearly fell in on top of him.

 _"There_ you are!" he said, regaining his balance. "Were you asleep? I've been knocking for ages."

"Yes," said Loki, grimly.

"Did I wake you up?" said Thor. His blue eyes were very earnest.

Loki looked at him, and had to hold back a sigh.

"No, I've been awake for quite a while," he said, hastily concealing a yawn. "Some pestilential bird decided to serenade me at the crack of dawn. Tried to throw a book at it, but I missed. Did you want something?"

"Our friends and I are going hunting to bring back something for the feast next week. We wondered - or, well, _I_ wondered - "

Sometimes, Thor really was too honest for his own good, Loki thought.

"I mean to say...would you like to accompany us?" Thor finished.

For a moment, Loki considered it. He had not ventured out of Asgard for a while now; it might do him good to get outside, to feel the wind and sun on his face instead of fretting quietly away in the gloom of his chambers.

In recent years, though, the company of his friends - or rather more accurately, his brother's friends - had begun to lose its shine. Loki could not be sure whether they had merely drifted apart, as childhood friends so often did, or whether they had never truly been one unit in the first place. On his more pessimistic days, the latter seemed the most likely. Although Fandral, Hogun, Sif and Volstagg were all vastly different in appearance and temperament, there were certain things that bound them together - a love for adventure and battle, a shared sense of humour, and so on.

Loki himself, naturally, possessed none of these things. At times, he couldn't help feeling that the only common denominator between the Warriors Three and himself was Thor. The force of his brother's personality seemed to draw them inexorably together, like planets orbiting a brilliant sun. It was easy enough to see why Thor attracted the attention that he did. His light was almost palpable; it seemed almost to spill from him, throwing those around him into sharp relief, making them better and brighter and somehow _more_ than they were by themselves. And yet somehow, that effect had never really lent itself to Loki. All it had ever done was cast him into shadow.

"Thank you for the offer, but I have much to be getting on with," he said, trying for a smile. "You would do better without me."

"Are you sure?" Thor said, frowning. "You really should get out, Loki. You've been stuck inside for days on end. It can't be good for you."

"I seem to have managed all right so far," Loki pointed out.

"And besides," Thor said, "it would be good for you to have some sort of distraction after what happened in -"

Loki cut him off hastily. Nothing good could come from continuing on _that_ particular tack. "I'll be _fine_. You worry far too much, brother. Anyway - I do hope your hunt is successful. Take care not to fall into any swamps this time."

"You - That was one time!"

"And what a time it was. You looked as though someone had dipped you in gravy," Loki said, adopting an expression of fond reminiscence. "Just a brown Thor-shaped lump with two little white eyes looking out."

"Yes, _thank you,_ Loki - "

" - and then the smell, do you remember, it hung around for _weeks - "_

"Don't make me regret asking you along," Thor growled.

Loki allowed a shocked hand to flutter to his throat. "Oh, stop that. You'll hurt my feelings."

"You don't have feelings to hurt," said Thor darkly.

"Tell me," said Loki, "are you intending to spend all day attacking my good character, or are you going to depart for your hunt at some point?"

Thor took the hint and left.

Feeling oddly cheered by this mutual exchange of insults, Loki closed the door again. Though the feverish terror of his nightmare had all but departed, he felt muzzy still, the air of his room damp and cloying. Opening the doors on to the balcony, he stepped out and closed his eyes for a few seconds, drinking in the fresh air. However, as his mind cleared, so the dark, ominous shapes of the anxieties he had so carefully suppressed began to emerge from the haze of sleep, puncturing his good mood.

Leaning both elbows on the balcony, Loki rested his head in his hands, doing his best to ignore the chatter and laughter of passing citizens that floated up to him from several stories below. He felt overcrowded somehow, as though his head were a great hall full of multiple conversations being carried on at once.

If only he could get a moment's peace, he thought...a quiet open space merely to sit and _think_ without fear of interruption...

Then it came to him.

Ten breathless minutes of climbing later, Loki rolled on to a flat, circular surface, and moved to sit cross-legged at its centre. It was smaller than he remembered it being - only a mere foot of space on each side separated him from the edge - but then again, that was only to be expected; he had not ventured up here for many years now. The thought of what people would say if they were to look up and catch a glimpse of Odin's youngest son scaling the rooftops of the palace had been enough to deter him.

The height, however, was just as dizzying as it had ever been. The sides of the tower upon which he sat dropped away sharply, ending at arched golden roofs on one side and a bustling courtyard on the other. From this vantage point, the people going about their business down below looked little more than coloured dots, and the only sound was the whistling of the wind in his ears. Closing his eyes, Loki sought to use his old technique of turning his mind into a blank white space, tuning out the hum of background noise and allowing logical thought to take its place.

So. The facts, as he had them, were thus. He had a question - an unanswerable question, it seemed, and yet one that could not remain unanswered. Speculation, ultimately, was useless. The only way he could finally put to rest that nagging little shred of doubt - the fear that the grotesque transformation he had witnessed in the vault was somehow not reversible, not _fixable -_ was to ask someone who would know such things.

Unfortunately, the pool of possible confidantes was woefully small. Odin, he had already established, was out of the question. To reveal that he had broken one of his father's strictest rules would lose Loki what little good grace he had worked to extract - perhaps even break the Allfather's trust in him forever. _And imagine,_ jeered a small and decidedly unwelcome voice in the back of Loki's mind, _just imagine if it all turns out exactly as you feared! Loki the Silvertongue turns out to be no more than a dark little cuckoo in the nest. He'd have no need to pretend love for you_ then _, would he?_ Loki hastily quelled the voice, but could not stop a small shudder going through him that had nothing to do with the wind. No, he could not ask his father.

Then there was Heimdall, with his all-seeing eye, who would be sure to have the answer - or rather, he would if Loki had not cloaked himself from the Gatekeeper's sight before entering the vault. The mental image arose of those haughty and unnaturally bright amber eyes, narrowed in suspicion as they always were when fixed on Loki. No. Definitely not a good move. 

At his core, Loki realised, the person he really wanted to tell was Frigga - but rejection from her was impossible, unthinkable. Shameful as it was to admit, he knew it would finish him in a way that almost nothing else could. A small voice somewhere inside his head spoke up in her defence, insisted that she had always supported him, always forgiven him - but the memory of her dream-incarnation watching, blank and uncaring, as he was publicly accused of the most maleficent of crimes, was stronger. 

Then that left - who? Who in the Nine Realms was more watchful than Heimdall, more knowledgeable than Odin, more understanding than his mother?

And suddenly, he had the answer, right there in his head as though it had resided there all along, waiting to be called upon. Loki stared into space unseeing, his mind racing.

He knew what he had to do. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Well. It's been eight months, and I expect the majority of people have forgotten this story existed, but see! I live! And I have slain the mighty dragon of Chapter Four! Honestly - I got stuck in a major rut with this thing, especially in line with finishing art college and starting university, but I feel like I'm vaguely back on track, now. I've also added some tags that might give you a few clues as to where this story is going, if you're curious. To anyone who's still there: hope you enjoy the new chapter!

Contacting the Norns wasn’t easy. Loki hadn’t expected it to be – if it were, surely everyone would be doing it left and right. However, he had to admit to himself that he had underestimated just how _not-easy_ it would be.

He started in the library.

“Back again, are we?” said the librarian on his third visit, who looked, if possible, even more desiccated than the last time Loki had seen him, like some weird dead creature that someone had pickled in a jar. “Two years I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of you, and now you seem to be haunting the place.”

One of his eyes looked Loki up and down with suspicion; the other tracked off into the distance, focusing on nothing. Loki recalled a time when that eye had scared him, its cloudy blue seeming to see beyond what was easily visible. Nowadays, it was merely a nuisance, and reminded him uncomfortably of what lay beneath the Allfather’s golden eye-patch. “I’m working on something,” he said, shortly.

“Well, well,” the librarian said, his good eye looking vaguely disappointed, “if you need anything, you know where to find me.” And he waved Loki on.

The historical section was of no use; nor was the storytelling area he had frequented as a child, full of illustrated tales of elves and dragons and serpents whose curves were rendered in fine gold ink. As he traced them, he suddenly heard – as if from a very long way away – Frigga’s voice lingering over the foreign names, low and gentle, and his own higher timbre raised in question: _did that really happen? Why did the king want to get rid of his daughter? Do the Frost Giants still live? Mother?_

He shut the book rather harder than necessary. The sound was jarring in the empty hall, and somewhere in the distance he heard a clattering of wings as some trapped bird took flight.

For no particular reason, he recalled a certain instance, many years ago; their tutor had left them to study alone, and there had been some sort of argument (there was always some sort of argument, between himself and Thor). Loki could not remember how it had begun, only that it had resulted in a bottle of ink being upended over the pages of some rare and valuable book from which they had been learning their lessons.

For an instant, they had both stilled completely in utter horror; then their eyes had met across the table. “We need to get rid of this,” Loki had said, and Thor had nodded wordlessly, anger replaced by a mutual understanding.

And so they’d made their hurried way to the library, the book stuffed under Thor’s shirt and his arms crossed to hide the squarish bulge. Thor, who rarely visited the place, was mesmerised by the size of it, and by the rainbows that the vaulted glass roof threw down on to the polished floors. “Don’t get distracted,” Loki told him. “We’ve got to hide this before our professor comes back.”

“I _know_ that,” said Thor irritably, but his eyes still roved over the vast expanse of shelves, the staircases that spiralled up to the cavernous roof, as if trying to take in everything at once.

Meanwhile, Loki had made his way deeper into the library, scanning the shelves for a hidden alcove, a secret gap, anything – until a floorboard protested at his weight, and it came to him in a flash of inspiration. He’d dropped to his knees, slid his nails under the edge of the board as far as they could go, and tugged.

“What are you doing?” Thor asked, appearing suddenly beside him.

“What does it look like?” Loki had replied, levering the board carefully out of position. Underneath was a dark gap, easily large enough to hide several books – and several spiders, if the spindly shapes that scuttled away from the light were any indication.

Thor retrieved the book from inside his shirt and passed it over. “What are we going to tell him?”

“Tell him we finished copying it out and put it back, to save him the trouble,” said Loki. “We wrote enough down to make that seem convincing.” The book was still warm to the touch. He took it and laid it down carefully in the gap.

“You always have the best ideas, brother,” Thor said, sounding almost fond, and Loki’s chest warmed -

Coming to his senses abruptly, Loki shook himself.

What was he _doing,_ lingering over old recollections when there was work to be done? Stupid, he thought. Stupid to remember such a thing now. Concentrate on the task at hand.

He threw himself back into his research with a vengeance, and the pile of discarded tomes beside him grew steadily, even as the sun began to sink and the shadows to lengthen. Yet even as he devoured book after book, scouring the pages for more than just a passing mention of the Norns, he found himself unable to focus completely. There was something lodged in the back of his head, nagging at him like the sharp insistent pain of a papercut. And one image kept coming back to him – that of black ink soaking into dog-eared pages, the steady _drip-drip_ as it pattered off the edge of the table, turning his fingers black as pitch…

Somehow he was on his feet, the book he had been ransacking splayed open nearby. He was moving, knowing the way without having to think about it.

Feeling powerfully self-conscious, he knelt, groping at the edge of the worn floorboard. At first it did not budge, and he was sure he had been mistaken – then he felt it give under his fingers.

And there was the book, exactly where he and Thor had left it all those years ago. The dust had barely touched it; it looked, if not new, then certainly unsullied. Loki parted the pages with one hand, and they quite naturally fell open to the page where he (or Thor, or perhaps both of them) had upended the ink bottle. The stain looked like a monochromatic map, its spiky black contours giving way to smaller spatters that almost resembled islands. Loki knelt there staring at it, waiting for the onrush of memory, but it did not come.

He was disappointed, he realised; quite horribly disappointed. This place, far from being the paradise of knowledge and mystery that his childhood recollections had painted it as, had grown cold in his absence. Nothing in here held the answers he needed, nothing seemed to want or welcome him. Feeling strangely hollow, Loki was reaching for the floorboard to replace it when a stray word caught his eye. It was at the top of the page, one of the few areas that had not been obscured by the ink.

NORNIR, it read.

Loki’s heart gave an odd jump inside his chest. _Don’t get excited, don’t get excited,_ he told himself, but he was already feverishly rifling through the pages, skimming through the sections that were still readable. There was, admittedly, not much – the pages were thin as catgut and the ink had soaked through almost a quarter of them. But here and there, around the edges, he could pick out just enough to make his hands shake with hungry anticipation. The light was going fast now, and he conjured a greenish orb, suspended it over the pages.

And there it was.

An incantation. Long, complex, written in not only a foreign language but a foreign alphabet (and it must be a truly archaic one, for the Allspeak naturally translated all languages that were still in common use) but there nonetheless. Loki felt deep within him a nagging suspicion – surely, _surely_ this was too easy? – but it was quickly drowned by the rising tide of excitement, a thrill that he had not felt for decades at least.

He traced his fingers (which shook only slightly) over the weird, spiky lettering. That part would not be difficult; somewhere in his collection he had a book of translation, it was just a matter of finding the right alphabet. The incantation itself was merely a means to an end. The crucial skill was worldwalking, and he had been performing that particular trick since he was old enough to leave his parents’ sight without causing alarm. Frigga had nearly gone demented with his antics at one point, doing all she could to prevent him from slipping from one world to the next like a fish darting between streamlets, but the points of convergence were varied and ever-shifting, and it was impossible to blockade them all – unless, like Loki himself, you could sense them without ever needing to look.

Loki rose hastily and stuffed the book beneath his shirt, feeling a powerful sense of deja-vu as he did so, and made his way towards the now-distant exit. It had grown dark, far darker than he had realised. He was tempted to conjure another light source, but doing that would draw too much attention.

He rounded a corner, and walked directly into something solid.

“What are you _doing?”_ the something hissed, sounding very much like Sif.

Loki breathed out. Quite glad that he had managed to withhold a yelp, he drew himself up to his full height. “I might ask the same thing of you,” he said, keeping his voice pitched low.

“I was sent to look for you!”

He blinked, momentarily taken aback. “What? Why?”

“Did you forget there was a foreign counsel meeting today? You were missed,” said Sif, the malice in her tone just barely apparent, like a faultline running through rock.

Loki felt his thoughts stop in their tracks. He _had_ forgotten. How could something like that have slipped his mind so easily? His father would be furious. Last night’s dream came unbidden to his mind again, and sent an involuntary shudder running through him.

But Sif was looking at him, frowning, and he realised he had not given her a reply. “Of course not,” he said, to amend the slip. “I was – am – unwell. I asked a message to be taken to Father – clearly it was intercepted somehow.”

Sif was no more than a vaguely person-shaped shadow, but Loki could easily picture her suspicious expression. He couldn’t blame her for not believing him; with a face still flushed from excitement he probably appeared far healthier than usual. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here,” she said.

“Researching something. Don’t come the haughty with me – I have a right to be here, same as you.”

“Research? At this time of night?”

He shrugged, guileless. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Really.” She sounded unimpressed. “And so you decided to do _research?”_

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Loki snapped. “Not exactly much of a _reader_ , are you? Aren’t you more from the school of hitting things with weapons until you get your way?”

“Oh, for – ” Sif made a faint growling noise, then collected herself. “This is ridiculous. Why must you turn everything into some sort of fight? I’ve come to get you. You’re here. Let’s go.”

Loki offered his arm to her, as ironically as he could. She eyed it as though he’d presented her with a poisonous snake, and stalked on ahead, the distant light from the doorway throwing her shadow out behind her. It was all he could do to keep up.

“I’ll tell the Allfather that you’re back,” she said as they approached the exit. “He’ll be wanting to see you later. He said – what’s that under your shirt?”

Loki realised, too late, that he had one arm gripped protectively over the book under his shirt. He lowered it hastily, but the damage was done.

“Show me,” said Sif.

Loki gave her a glare that was lost in the dim light. “I might be wrong, but I _think_ it’s none of your business.”

“I specialise in things that aren’t my business. Let’s see it.”

“No,” said Loki, and tried to go around her.

She stepped sideways and blocked him. For a minute, he contemplated shoving her, but that would be no good. Shameful as it was to admit, she’d always been stronger than him.

Nothing for it, then. He made a show of slumping in defeat, allowing the tension to fall from his shoulders. “If you absolutely _must_ know,” he said, “it’s a present.”

“Oh really!” Her voice somehow managed to hit a notch between disbelief and delight – most likely at the emergence of a new form of teasing. “Who for?”

“Just…someone,” Loki said, evasively.

“A girl?” Sif said, her eyes glittering.

“…maybe.” Hel, this was embarrassing.

Sif eyed him, and the corner of her mouth went up, very slightly. He had her. “And would this _girl_ happen to be the reason you weren’t at the meeting today?”

Loki opened his mouth to say _certainly not –_ but then it occurred to him that actually, yes, that fitted quite nicely. “Just – don’t tell anyone?” he said, aiming for a convincingly pleading tone. No doubt it would please Sif no end to have leverage over him; but still, a little humiliation was better than the alternative.

“Oh, I won’t,” said Sif, adding hastily, “unless you give me reason to, of course.”

“I’ll try my best not to,” Loki said, with completely genuine relief. “May I go now?”

She stepped aside, and he pushed past her, walking as fast as he could without appearing to be in a hurry. The night was growing late, and he had work to do.

Lots of it.

* * *

He didn’t wait.

In fairness, he tried; told himself it wasn’t urgent, that he could wait till tomorrow or even the next week, even stowed the book behind a shelf so that it would not tempt him from across the room, and did his level best to relax. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw a vision of his own skin turned hypothermic blue, and his stomach would clench uneasily, a shudder passing over him.

Finally, when it became apparent that sleep was a lost cause, he sat up abruptly and stared into the gloom, feeling a sickish combination of anticipation and dread. Tonight, then. It had to be.

It was a matter of minutes to collect everything he needed, but the set-up was hours in the making, to the point where he feared the sun might rise, and the new day begin, before he completed it. The method was primitive, yet annoyingly complex – chalk designs on the bare floor, each one measured to a millimetre’s accuracy and placed with various algorithms which required solving. The translation itself was painstaking work. He lit candles to see by, relit them when they burned to stubs, fetched new ones when the stubs collapsed into pools of hot wax. He had to be cautious of keeping the newly translated pages in the correct order; incomprehensible as they were, he would have no way of righting them were he to put one back in the wrong place. It seemed to take an interminably long time, but finally, he placed the quill down, the last scratched rune drying on the page.

_“Stefna,”_ he read, testing the first word on his tongue. It sounded right, or near enough. Clearing his throat and shifting to a more comfortable position, he began.

His voice sounded thin and shaky to begin with, and the dead night-silence around him did not help. After a time, though, the words seemed to take him over – he no longer had any sense of speaking them aloud, only of reading them and hearing them at the same time. His mouth felt dry as bone. _Greiðsla. Þriðja. Dauða._

It could have been a few minutes, an hour, or even days – although the latter seemed unlikely. It was impossible to tell. Loki sat, unaware of his own dry lips and chafing throat, until the speaking of the strange words stopped, and he blinked, taken short by the sudden silence.

The pages he had read lay on one side of him; the last of them was on his lap. He had finished. There was no more left.

It hadn’t worked.

Of course. Of course it hasn’t. Deep down, he’d known he was being optimistic; perhaps the spell was too old, the translation too inaccurate, his pronunciation too sloppy – the variables were endless. Swallowing down gut-wrenching disappointment that threatened to rise to the surface as tears, Loki blew out the candle.

And all around him, the world turned white.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, everyone! To celebrate the fact that this hell year is nearly over, have an early chapter (or early by my standards, anyway). No Thor in this chapter, I'm sad to say, but don't worry - he should be back in the next one, now that things have started to kick off. Also, there's a Richard Siken reference in here, because I couldn't resist. Enjoy!

When Loki came to, he was aware immediately of three things: his head was throbbing, somewhere a kettle was hissing and spitting on the hob, and a young woman was standing with her back to him, washing up a mug.

He must have made a noise, or startled somehow, because she turned her head, almost as though she’d heard his mind stir and awaken. “Oh, you’re up,” she said, sounding pleased. She wore masculine clothes, consisting of a pair of bluejeans and a buttoned shirt, and her hair was long and reddish, like straw.

“I thought – I was – ” said Loki, nonsensically. He was in a kitchen, he realised, absurd in its very ordinariness, with tastefully chequered curtains and a scrubbed wooden table.

Her smile widened. “Do you want tea?” she said. “I was just about to make some for myself, but by the looks of you, you could do with a cup as well.”

Loki tried to say that yes, a cup of tea would be much appreciated, but what came out instead was, “Who are you?”

Her brows drew together. “Well, what a question to ask,” she said. She set the mug down with a clank and turned to face him fully. “You cast the spell, after all.”

“You mean you’re – _you’re_ one of the – ”

“Not _one_ of anything,” the woman corrected him, not unkindly. “We are the Norns, which you should know, seeing as you went to so much effort to call us up. It’s been a long time since anyone did that, by the way.”

“Maths isn’t my strong point,” said Loki, cautiously, “but oughtn’t there to be three of you?”

“Numbers are only numbers,” said the Norns, and she (they?) took a sheaf of tea bags down from a hook, starting to unknot the strings. “They hold value only in relation to one another, and no value at all when referring to the non-physical. Out of One comes Two, out of Two comes Three, and out of the Three comes the Four that is One. Do you take sugar?”

Loki, unsure whether this was genuine nonsense or whether the dull throb in his head was muddling things, said, “Two, please.”

The Norns poured the tea, stirred the bags, tipped in the sugar. Their movements had an oddly jerky quality about them, like a marionette being manipulated by an inexpert puppeteer. Loki watched them, feeling ill at ease. He had not known what to expect, but this did not seem quite _right;_ if pressed, he would have imagined a castle, a feast-hall, a mountainside cave, even. Certainly not this picture of humble domesticity.

The Norns returned to the table, bearing two cups of tea and a bowl of cherries, ripe and darkly glossy. Loki wondered how they had known they were his favourite fruit, and then instantly felt ridiculous – of course, they knew everything. That was, after all, why he was here.

Responding again to his unspoken thought, the Norns set down their cup, lacing their hands together. “So, Odinson,” they said, and Loki told himself that the tinge of mockery in that last word was merely his imagination. “You know, of course, that our information comes at a price.”

Loki’s heart sank. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d seen this coming. After all, had Odin not exchanged his eye for wisdom at Ymir’s well? But – “What could you possibly desire from me?” he said, trying for innocence. “I have little to give, unless you care for weaponry or gold.”

“You have more to give than that, and well you know it,” said the Norns, their voice taking on a note of sharpness. “Evading the toll carries its own punishment.”

Loki spread his hands. “Very well, then; name it.”

The Norns lifted the cup again, and took a slow sip. Loki watched, burning with impatience that he hid as best he could. Finally, they met his eyes again. “They call you Silvertongue, do they not?”

He tensed. “Some do, some don’t.”

“And why is that, precisely?” said the Norns, silkily.

Loki knew what he _wanted_ to say; he _wanted_ to say that it was because of his charm, his wit, his skill with wordplay. That when he was a child, his mother had once said that his tongue dripped with as much gold and silver as a nobleman’s purse. That his wisdom was bright as silver and twice as valuable.

What came out instead was, “They say I am a liar.”

“And are you?” the Norns said.

Loki could feel his fingernails biting into his palms, and he could no longer stop them from digging in than he could stop his own damnable mouth opening and speaking for him. “Yes.”

“A bad habit, to be sure,” the Norns mused, as if to themselves. “Do you not think you would be better off without such a skill?”

Loki shook his head vigorously, mouth clamped shut.

Silence fell. The Norns eyed him, their gaze as grey and fathomless as winter fog. Avoiding eye contact, Loki reached for a cherry, broke the stalk off savagely, and bit down.

“It seems,” the Norns said presently, “you have a choice to make, Odinson.”

“Do I,” Loki said, keeping his voice inflectionless.

The Norns smiled at him. Their hands were folded on the table before them, like a prim schoolmistress. “It has a certain symmetry to it. You want the truth, do you not?”

In spite of himself, Loki nodded.

“Very well, then. Two centuries of lies – yours – for two centuries of truth. Also yours.”

“You would undo every untruth I’ve told?” Loki said, feeling the sweat prickle out on the back of his neck. The consequences of that were unbearable – unthinkable –

“We cannot alter what has already transpired,” the Norns said, and he felt himself wilt with relief. “We can only alter what _might_ be. And so in return for undoing the lies that you have been told, we shall undo the lies that you would tell to others. Fair?” They tilted their head to one side, magpie-like.

Loki could hear his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. So there _was_ something. He hadn’t imagined it, hadn’t lost his mind; there was something rotten hidden inside him, inside Asgard itself, and he was on the verge of reaching its black, fetid centre. The world he knew seemed to shimmer around him, fragile as a soap bubble; one step further, and he knew it would burst entirely, gone without trace.

When he spoke, the words seemed to be coming from very far away. “I accept.”

The Norns watched him for a minute longer, impassive, and the magnitude of what he had just consented to threatened to crash in upon him, suffocating him. But before it could, the Norns sighed, in what could have been resignation, and began to speak.

* * *

_It began with a baby. As most stories do._

_There was a monster in the story, too. All good stories need a monster. Something to lurk in the shadows at the edge of the room, often all the more frightening for how easily you might mistake it for human. Something for siblings to frighten each other with at night._

_And of course there was a hero, for what is a story without a hero?_

_Tall. Bright. Golden as the sun. The hero has not killed the monster yet, but he will one day, because that is what heroes do._

_This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story._

* * *

Loki sat.

The cup of tea was in his hands. It had gone cold many minutes ago, but he had not set it down again. It had not occurred to him to do so.

“Does Thor know?” he said.

The Norns moved their head slowly, from left to right and back again.

“Does Frigga know? Whose son I am, I mean?”

The Norns moved their head again, this time from up to down and back again.

Loki thought of the warmth of Frigga’s smile, of the glint that appeared in her eye when she was about to beat him at chess, at the way her hands had felt on his head when he was younger and suffering from fevers, and tasted cherry-juice sour in the back of his throat.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for telling me.”

He stood.

“The payment is not yet completed, Odinson,” said the Norns.

Loki felt white heat ignite inside him, as shocking as a spill of scalding water against a hand numb with cold. Before he had time to think what he was doing, he slammed both his hands flat on the table, causing the tea mug to topple and crack. _“Don’t call me that,”_ he said, and his voice, instead of the threatening growl he’d intended, came out sounding like an open wound.

“What would you prefer instead?” said the Norns, politely.

He straightened. Hands shaking beyond his control. “Nothing. No one. Leave me alone.” He turned away.

“You made a bargain with us,” the Norns said, an edge to their voice. “We would not advise leaving without paying your end.”

Loki turned back, his pulse hammering once again. “You cannot leave this place, can you?” he said. “You are hemmed in by these walls. Or has everything I’ve heard about you been wrong?”

“No,” said the Norns, their voice colder than frost. “We cannot.”

Loki felt a grin form on his face, and without seeing it he knew it would be wide and all teeth, vicious as any wild beast. “Then you will have a great deal of trouble catching me,” he said, and moved to go.

He had barely set one foot forward when the room seemed to bulge and swell around him, like a gigantic throat contracting, preparing to swallow him whole. Caught off-balance, he looked back – and felt his stomach drop.

The kitchen seemed to be _melting,_ its neat floor tiles buckling like hot glass, the tasteful curtains running together, the walls collapsing in on themselves. It seemed somehow far bigger and far smaller than it had been a moment ago, like an optical illusion showing an object both near and far away. And the Norns – the Norns were –

Loki stared, mesmerised with horror, at what was no longer one face but _three_ , not separate but twisted grotesquely together, so that ear became eyelid and cheek stretched into nose and eye sat atop eye. It was as if three wax dolls had been melted and crudely pressed together. Six eyes, black and insectoid, and all of them fixed on him.

 _“Seize him,”_ said the Norns, with three voices that buzzed all together and melded into one, and spindly hands reached out. Three of them. Possibly more.

Loki reached, found the rent, and _pulled._

He may have imagined the sound of gauzy fabric ripping, the roar as air rushed in to fill the space where he had been, but he certainly did not imagine the sound of the Norns’ outraged shrieks fading behind him; nor did he imagine the way those shrieks did not sound even vaguely like a person. Some primal part of his mind recalled a cat he and Thor had once found, being tormented by a group of children, its hind legs broken, and the _sounds_ it had made….

Even as this unpleasant image surfaced it disintegrated again, and then he was nothing, he was losing himself, he was gone. The world turned sideways, upside down, and performed several other incomprehensible manoeuvres that culminated with him lying once again on his bedroom floor, nauseous and limp.

For a moment his eyes remained closed; then he opened them, slowly and reluctantly. It was dawn, with cold grey light creeping through the windows, and Sif sat on his bed, her hair unbraided and her face as hard as steel.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait (again) - the Dragon Age fandom got its grabby little hands on to me and refused to let go, and my laptop decided to be a little bitch and delete most of my files for no apparent reason. Thanks, Acer. Side note: who else is freaking out about the Thor: Ragnarok trailer? Because I am.

“So,” said Sif. “This is all _very_ interesting. Care to tell me what you’ve been up to this time?”

Gasping, Loki tried to lurch to his feet. His body immediately told him in no uncertain terms that this was a definite mistake, and he subsided, his head swimming. “What…are you…doing here?”

“I’m not stupid, you know,” said Sif, which wasn’t really an answer.

Loki let himself slump on to the carpet, eyes closing. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, and his voice sounded like it was coming from a very long way away.

“Oh, yes, it does,” Sif said grimly. He heard the rustle of bedclothes as she stood, then the sound of her footsteps as she crossed towards the circle. A sharp intake of breath followed. “Loki, what _is_ this? Candles? Sigils? I don’t even recognise this alphabet. What were you trying to call up?”

“Some terrible demon, doubtless,” Loki said distantly. “One to tear through Asgard and massacre every last man, woman and child. What do you want me to say? You’ve doubtless already got the whole story written in your head.”

“I want you,” said Sif, “to tell me the truth. For once in your life.”

For a moment, Loki contemplated lying, mostly out of force of habit. But what was the good of it? Lies, after all, were what had got him into this mess – and wasn’t _that_ an irony of the finest kind? The Liesmith himself, the Silvertongue, known throughout the Realms for his insight and acuity to deception, had been duped. Not just once, but over and over again, thousands of different threads all weaving together to create a tapestry, a grandmaster con that rivalled anything he’d ever come up with himself. The sheer scope of it was almost impressive.

It hit him all at once, then. Nothing about this – about _him –_ was real. Not his status, not his parentage, not even his own skin. He felt suddenly as a beast-trainer feels when one of his own hounds turns against him, savaging him. There was no recourse to be found in lying now; the truth was all he had left.

He lifted his head and spoke, dully. “I called upon the Norns.”

A pause, then: “You did what,” said Sif, in the flat tones of somebody dearly hoping they’d misheard.

He shrugged. Indifferent. “It wasn’t hard.”

Sif’s expression looked as though it had been carved out of marble by an artist in a particularly bad temper. “Wasn’t – are you _completely mad?”_

Loki fought back a hysterical laugh. She was closer to the mark than she knew, perhaps, but it wouldn’t do to tell her so. “I’d hope not,” he said. “Regardless of my sanity, I did speak to them. It was little more than a gamble, really, but fortunately it paid off.”

“I knew you were planning something, but this...” She shook her head, like a cat trying to rid itself of an irritating fly. “I didn’t even think it was possible.”

“How did you know I was planning something?”

“You’re not nearly as good a liar as you think you are,” Sif told him. “Not to the people who know you, anyway. A “present for a girl”? Really?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Loki said, unable to restrain the defensive tone.

She scoffed at him. “Since when have _you_ been interested in girls?”

That probably should have stung a lot more than it did, but it was as though all his senses had been numbed, and instead he just snorted, half-amused. It was true – Sif wasn’t stupid. Her mind simply worked in a way that was alien to him, moving in a straight line from premise to conclusion without any of the labyrinthine twisting and turning in between, no divergences or tricks, no ulterior motives. She saw to the heart of things, and while it wasn’t a trait he admired himself, it was nonetheless one that he respected.

“Fair,” he said, not even bothering to argue.

Neither of them spoke for a minute. Outside, footsteps tapped past the door, accompanied by the chatter of voices.

“What…what were they like?” Sif asked, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

It wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. For a moment he floundered, unsure of how exactly to voice what he’d seen, before realising that he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to maintain his sanity, anyway.  “They looked like three elderly women,” he snapped. “What else did you expect?”

Sif was frowning at her knees, seemingly deep in thought. “There are some who believe they are a children’s tale, or that they no longer exist. That they never existed.”

“Well. They do.”

She contemplated her knees for a moment more, then looked up. “What did you ask them?”

And there it was. “That’s none of your concern.”

Sif’s gaze sharpened. “Really. Will it be my concern when I go to the Allfather and tell him what you’ve been up to?”

“You can tell him what you like,” Loki said. “I don’t care in the least.” A bluff, of course, but it was the only move he could play at this stage in the game. Well – not quite the only one. There was always the truth. But if he gave her that, he might as well have lost already.

 _Haven’t you lost already, though?_ said a snide little voice somewhere in the back of his head. _How long can you keep this going before it all collapses in on itself?_

A knock on the door. They both looked up, Loki more sharply than he’d meant to. “Getting to be quite the little gathering, isn’t it?” he said to Sif, and got up to open it.

Unexpectedly, it was Fandral, looking rather more ruffled than Loki had ever seen him before. “Loki? Have you seen – oh!”

Sif had emerged behind him. Fandral glanced from one to the other, one eyebrow lifting. “Should I leave you two alone, or – ”

“No, no,” said Loki hurriedly, “it’s – fine.” _Please don’t,_ he thought.“Is something amiss?”

Fandral paused for a second – unused, perhaps, to hearing cordiality from Loki, who ordinarily made no secret of his distaste for the other’s ceaseless flouncing and philandering. “Not as such,” he said. “I _was_ looking for Sif – or Thor was, anyway. He said you left early during last night’s gathering.”

She gave him a cool look. “I did. I didn’t realise taking an early night had been outlawed.”

“I expect he merely thought it unlike you to miss an opportunity to get roaring drunk and beat all his political rivals at _tafl_ ,” Fandral said. “And quite honestly, I agree. What’s going on? Are you two partners in mischief now?”

Sif snorted. “Partners? With this one? Hardly likely.”

“I _am_ still here _,_ you know,” Loki said, peevishly, and immediately felt his face flush at the childishness of his own words.

Both sets of eyes turned to him. “So you are!” Fandral said, feigning surprise. “In that case, you can come along with us today. We got a visitor from one of the neighbouring villages this morning. Seems that Bregentved’s being terrorised by some mysterious beast – or possibly a plague, the messenger didn’t seem too sure. Anyway, the Allfather wants rid of it. Thor asked you to come along. _Specifically_ you.”

Loki blinked, caught up short. It wasn’t often that he was asked along to such expeditions – not that he would have been likely to accept the offers, had they been more freely given. An unwarranted swell of pride, left over from his days of childish hero-worship, mingled uneasily with the weight in the pit of his stomach. “What sort of...beast?” he asked.

Fandral shrugged. “No idea. Most likely some half-blind old woman saw a wild deer, mistook it for a wyvern, and stirred the whole place into a frenzy. Still – they’ve asked for help, and we’re to give it to them.” His expression suggested he was less than pleased with the idea.

For his part, Loki imagined spending a day in close quarters with Thor and his companions, forced to laugh and smile and act as though nothing had changed, and narrowly avoided shuddering. Instead, he tried for a smile. “Honoured, I’m sure, but I think I’ll stay here if it’s all the same to you.”

“You will _not,”_ Sif said sharply.

Fandral looked again from one to the other, clearly unsure of how to respond. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I’ll let you two…er…sort it out. The party is gathering outside the gates in an hour. Oh, and bring something warm,” he added to Sif, “it looks like rain.”

“Thank you, Fandral,” Loki said, icily.

As soon as he was gone, Sif turned back to Loki. “If you think I’m leaving you alone for the day after this _–_ ”

“Oh, for heavens’ sake,” Loki hissed, keeping his voice low. No need to attract any undue attention, after all. “Am I to have a nursemaid now?”

“You – !” For a second, anger rendered her incoherent. It was a rather pleasing sight. Then she recovered: “Don’t you _dare_ turn me into some kind of nagging harpy just because I refuse to let you endanger yourself and everyone else in this realm! Don’t you have any idea what a risk you took? The Norns are primal things, they aren’t bound by the same manner of rules as we are! Anything could have happened.”

“They seemed to me to be bound by little else _but_ rules,” Loki said, stepping back into his chambers. “Why, Sif, anyone would think you were concerned for my welfare.”

The last comment came out rather waspish; he softened it with a quick sideways grin. By Sif’s expression, she wasn’t in the least convinced. “Fine. Be that way, then. At least tell me you didn’t try to make any ridiculous deals with them.”

Loki gave her his brightest smile, and said, “Really, Sif, do you think me entirely a fool?”

She eyed him for a long moment, eyes narrowed. He waited, fighting the urge to swallow down a strange itch in his throat. Finally: “No,” she said, contemplatively. “I don’t. You’re many things, Loki, but you’re no fool. I’ll see you soon.”

“Will you, now.”

“I think so,” said Sif, “unless you want me to get talkative next time I’m seated near the Allfather. And I’d clean that circle off the floor, if I were you.”

“I don’t – ”

She was gone before he could finish, and the door shut behind her. He stared at the glossy wooden surface, and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. She wasn’t going to say anything. She hadn’t guessed; or if she had, she was a better liar than he’d given her credit for. He was safe. For now, at least.

The itch in his throat was growing worse. He swallowed convulsively, trying to banish it, then coughed a few times. It abated somewhat, but there remained an odd sort of constricting feeling, more uncomfortable than really painful. Likely a piece of food had gone down the wrong way. Trying his best to ignore it, he went to the dresser and found a piece of old cloth, then went to his knees to attack the drawings on the floor.

They proved surprisingly stubborn, but after a few minutes he’d managed to erase half of them. The other half remained, a dark blackish brown not unlike scorch marks. The wax was troublesome, too; it had dripped down over the saucers as the candles burned down to the base, forming intricate, gelatinous sculptures and trails over the floorboards. He eyed the sun outside. Almost seven, by the looks of it – he’d have to start getting ready now if he was going to make the expedition.

He stood, and was overcome by a wave of sudden dizziness that left him shaking and slumped against the wall. When it passed, he glanced up, blinked the black spots from his vision – and froze.

Something had _happened_ to his room.

What, exactly, he couldn’t say; physically, it looked the same as ever, from the mess of papers and stacked books on the desk to the furs draped haphazardly over the bed. But somehow, indefinably, something had shifted. It was as if he was looking at a mirror image of the place, or a reconstruction made by someone who hadn’t quite remembered all the details right. Had someone come in while he was gone, and moved things around? Had Sif? He supposed it was possible. And yet – he recalled waking from his trance not half an hour ago, and noticing nothing unusual.

Slowly, Loki went to the desk and laid a hand on the dark wood. It felt the same as ever, cool and not quite smooth, notched with faint indentations where his quill had slipped and scratched the surface. To one side lay a treatise he’d been working on. The scratchy handwriting was unmistakeably his. Scanning it, though, he found himself strangely unable to recall exactly when he’d written it, or why. But that was ridiculous. He’d been working on it just a few nights ago – he should be able to remember, surely? And yet the sense of unfamiliarity persisted, nagging at him like a loose tooth. He sank abruptly into the nearest chair, hands coming up to cover his face, and remained there, trying to regulate his breathing.

Footsteps outside. He tensed, listening. The footsteps paused at the door, and there came another knock, too tentative to be Fandral. He remained silent. The knock came again, firmer this time. “My lord? Are you there? Prince Thor requests your presence.”

Loki let his hands fall from his face, but kept his eyes shut. “Tell him I’m coming.”

A pause – then he heard the footsteps retreat. Loki waited a few more seconds, then opened his eyes, slowly. For an instant the panic lingered; then it ebbed away, slowly, leaving just a faint sort of outline of itself, like the ring left by a hot plate upon a table-top.

He surveyed the room, slowly. The menace that had hung about it, changing it, was gone as though it had never been. The window still hung half-open, and beyond it the sky was bright and pale and clear. Letting out a shuddering breath, Loki got to his feet again and began to dress, pulling on boots and coat and chestplate with jerky, mechanical motions.

It was several minutes before his hands stopped shaking.

 

* * *

 

“So – which is it?”

Up ahead of them, Fandral’s voice echoed strangely, breaking the stillness. It had been several hours since they last spoke; as the forest closed in around them, it had begun to seem somehow less accepting of conversation, as though the trees themselves disapproved of chatter and laughter.

“Which is what?” Volstagg called out.

Fandral pulled his mount up short, allowing the others to close the distance between them. “Well, is it a plague, or a beast? Seems like a pretty crucial difference, doesn’t it?”

“They don’t know,” said Hogun, flatly.

Fandral snorted. “How can they _not know?_ The two aren’t remotely the same.” They had come to a clearing, now; shafts of pale light fell through the cover of trees, dappling the grass up ahead.

“Patience, my friends. I’m sure we shall find out soon enough.” That was Thor, and all eyes turned to him, almost involuntarily. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet so far. Loki was not certain to be thankful for this or not. On the one hand, he appreciated the unexpected peace. On the other, it meant that there was nothing to distract him from his own thoughts, which were pitching and roiling like a turbulent sea.

“Perhaps it’s some sort of curse,” suggested Volstagg. “I’ve heard witches can blight crops. It could be a witch. Or some sort of demon, perhaps.” Thor merely shrugged.

Perhaps, Loki thought, the atmosphere was getting to him as well. The nearer they drew to their destination, the more he got the sense that something did not want them here. They’d traversed this selfsame wood a hundred times, and yet it felt as if they were meeting with an old friend who has changed over the years, and become a stranger. Parts of it seemed almost to be alive, in an uncivilised, inhuman sort of way; several times he’d heard a faint murmuring noise, as though several people were speaking at once, but whenever he craned his head to look he saw nothing.

“We must be getting near, now,” said Sif. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight pigtail, the shadowy forest canopy making her face look pale and triangular. She looked troubled, Loki thought; but then that was only to be expected, given the events of that morning.

Hogun paused for a moment, seemingly listening to something no one else could hear, then slowed to a trot. “We are close.” 

“How can you be so – ” began Volstagg, and broke off. Loki could hear it too, now; the thunder of hooves, distant but drawing nearer by the second.

As they paused, alert and watchful, the bushes rustled, and a man approaching his twilight years emerged into the clearing. He pulled his horse up short as he caught sight of the group, calling out to them. “Are you the delegation from Asgard? Thank the Norns! We had not expected you so soon. I am Hrald, of Bregentved.” He put a clenched fist to his chest, an unaccountably formal gesture, and bowed his head.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Thor said. Loki noted that whilst his smile was as contagious as ever, there was something muted about it, a shadow that dimmed its usual brilliance. “I am Thor Odinson, of Asgard. This is my brother, Loki, and my companions – Sif and the Warriors Three. We heard there had been some sort of disturbance, and came as soon as we could. What ails you?”

“Disturbance is the right word,” Hrald said grimly. “There’s a darkness fallen over the village. At first we thought it was merely a sickness, but it seems to be more than that. And then – this morning...” He broke off. “Perhaps it will be easier to show you.”

“The messenger we received spoke of a beast, not a sickness,” Volstagg said, confused.

Hrald laughed, a sharp and humourless sound. “It may well be both. Come with me, if you will, and you shall see what I mean.”

He bowed his head again, then turned his horse about, spurring it into a canter. Loki saw a glance pass between the Warriors Three – this was a poor welcome for a royal delegation, especially one that had freely offered its aid. They had little choice but to follow, though, and after a moment of hesitation they moved after Hrald, letting the trees swallow them up.

Thor hung back, waiting for Loki to catch up. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly, as Loki drew level with him. “You’ve barely said anything today.”

“Neither have you,” Loki retorted, hiding his surprise. Thor did not often notice when he was in a mood. Not until it was too late, and the damage had already been done, the caustic words already spoken and regretted. Loki could not get his head around it. After what had happened, he would have expected mistrust, perhaps a certain distance between them. Instead, Thor seemed to be tiptoeing around him as though the slightest misstep could unleash an avalanche.

Then again, Loki supposed, he did not _know_. Or at least, he did not know quite everything. Perhaps he had, in his usual style, pretended that what they had seen in the Vault had never happened at all. At any rate, he likely still thought Loki his brother. Didn’t understand that he wasn’t, that he never had been, that he was nothing more than a – than –

His hands were shaking again. _Pull yourself together, don’t fall apart, not here, not now –_

Thor was saying something. He clenched the reins tight between his fingers to steady them, forced himself to look up. “Sorry, I was just...what did you say?”

“I said,” Thor repeated, “that I am glad to have you here.”

Loki froze for a second, unsure of what to say. They had passed out of the bright clearing, and the shadows felt cool on his skin, turning it a faint bluish colour. Up ahead, he could hear the others talking quietly, their voices nothing but murmurs. “I – am glad to be here,” he managed, finally.

Thor smiled at him. A real smile this time, not like the forced one he had given Hrald. Something about it made Loki’s chest seize up, and he turned his head away hastily, trying to find something else to focus on.

And found it.

“What in the _Realms_ ,” Sif choked out, “is that _smell?”_

Loki was already covering his nose and mouth against the stench, and as he drew up beside the others he saw them doing the same. Hrald was the only one who seemed calm, although his nostrils were flaring slightly. “I apologise,” he said. “We lost three more horses last night. The elders were disposing of the corpses when I left.”

It was only now that Loki noticed the oily smoke drifting towards them. The smell, he realised, was that of scorched meat, acrid and foul. “You burned them?” Volstagg said, voice muffled through the sleeve covering his face. “Why not eat them instead? Seems like a waste of good meat.”

Hrald shook his head. “Whatever killed them has poisoned their flesh. If this is a sickness, it’s like no other I’ve ever seen. And it’s not just the horses.”

“And you have no idea what’s causing it?” said Thor, doubtfully.

“None.”

 _Then how do you expect us to help?_ Loki thought, but didn’t say it. The trees were thinning out, now; he could see the shapes of houses not far ahead, a plume of smoke rising from their midst. He shivered.

“Come,” Hrald said, motioning them forwards. “You must speak with the elders. They will explain everything.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no legitimate excuse for how long this took and i'm not gonna pretend that i do. but hey - thor ragnarok, am i right? that was a good movie. i enjoyed that movie.

The miller’s wife had been taken that morning, and her body was not yet stiff.

They stood together in the dank little room, Hrald at their side, and Loki wondered – not for the first time – whether it was really wise to be here. Beast or sickness, this was something better dealt with by the Einherjar, not the heir to the throne himself. He kept his mouth shut, though. Better to be silent than to be thought a coward.

Thor was shifting from foot to foot, expression somewhere between awkward and unsettled. He looked almost absurdly large in the tiny space. “What exactly are we dealing with here?” he asked.

“It comes at night,” said Hrald. His hands were folded in front of him, almost as if he was praying. “Always at night.”

Sif was frowning. “And you have no idea what it is?”

Hrald shook his head. “None. But we’ve stationed men all around the perimeter and none of them have seen anything. And they’re good men, too – hardworking, observant. They wouldn’t let something slip past just like that.”

Thor moved over to the body on the bed. It looked pristine, untouched. Knotted blond hair haloed a face browned by the sun, hands folded neatly across a chest that no longer moved, would never move again. Only one thing was off. Her face, far from being the peaceful mask one might expect, was set in a grimace of terror: her eyes bulged from their sockets, and there were dried tear tracks visible on her cheeks. “You can examine her if you like,” Hrald said, watching him, “although I doubt it will do you any good. There’s nothing wrong with her.”

“Apart from being dead, you mean?” Fandral said.

Hrald’s smile was mirthless. “Yes. Apart from that.”

At least the smell was less in here, although Loki thought he might simply be getting used to it. He bent, put his hands to the woman’s cold face, and prised her mouth a little further open. Nothing inside it. So she hadn’t choked to death – or if she had, someone had removed the obstruction before they’d got there. He checked her nail beds next, and found no blood, no breakage, no sign of a struggle. If he’d been pushed, he’d have guessed it was a heart attack, but who ever heard of heart attacks striking an entire village? He stood up again, shrugging in response to their questioning looks.

“They’re all like that.” Hrald sounded hopeless. “Physically healthy, no internal damage or outward signs of sickness. They just die. The horses are the same – fine one night, then dead the following morning. And sometimes – ” He broke off.

“Sometimes?” Volstagg prompted.

Hrald shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “In the last few cases, the windows were open. Not forced, just unlatched from inside. Like something came in. Or was invited in. Likely it’s nothing to worry about, though.”

Involuntarily, Loki glanced at the window. It was far too small for a man to fit through; even a child would have struggled. And yet, as Hrald had said, it was open. Not fully open, but ajar, a slant of cold air whistling into the house.

“And you said your men haven’t seen anything?” Sif said. She seemed to be keeping as much of a distance as possible between herself and the woman on the bed, as if death might be contagious.

Hrald shook his head once again.

“Then you have two options at hand,” Loki said, speaking for the first time. Their eyes turned to him. “One is that whatever is attacking your people is coming in from outside the village, and slipping past your guards.”

“Impossible.”

“Then that leaves us with the second option,” said Loki. “It doesn’t need to enter from outside. Because it’s already here.”

There was a brief silence while they all considered this possibility.

Fandral broke it. “You really do have a knack for brightening things up,” he said. “Right - anyone for drinks?”

“Our people are being slaughtered nightly,” said Hrald. “I hardly think this is the time for drinks.”

Thor clapped him on the shoulder. “Your plight is indeed extreme, friend. But as an acquaintance of mine once said: one cannot do without drink! In times of celebration, we deserve it; and in times of strife, we need it.”

Hrald looked as though he wanted to argue, but instead he put up his hands in supplication. “Very well, Your Highness. There’s a tavern not far from here – if you wish to take the waters, that’s the place. Will you be staying here long?”

“No,” said Loki, at the same time as Thor said, “Yes, I think so.”

They glanced at each other.

“One night,” Loki said, compromising.

Thor hesitated, then smiled at him. It was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. “If all goes well, we shall not need to stay longer than a night. We’ll see how this beast of yours handles the sons of Odin!”

Loki felt the wild, irrational impulse to correct him: _son, not sons._ But he held back. “Thank you,” he said to Hrald, “for your hospitality. You said you had guards stationed around the perimeter. Do you need us to join them?”

Hrald shook his head. “Merely keep a sharp eye out. As of late, the villagers have been too afraid to venture from their homes, so we’ve been afforded no glimpse of – well, whatever this is. I assume you’ll have no such qualms?”

“I am not afraid, if that’s what you are asking,” said Thor.

Loki thought, but did not say: _perhaps you should be._

* * *

“Don’t you think,” said Loki presently, “we ought to go back and get some reinforcements?”

They were lying side by side on straw mats in one of the houses at the northern end of the village. When asked why it was empty, Hrald had been oddly evasive; that in itself was telling enough. The dwelling had been meticulously cleaned in preparation for their arrival. All the same, there was a strange atmosphere about it – the air smelled of mould, and underneath that something else. Something rotten.

Thor laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. We _are_ the reinforcements.”

“Six people against a monster that’s killed half the inhabitants of this village already? What stellar odds,” said Loki. “I’m sure it’ll take one look at us and simply run for its life.”

What he could see of Thor’s face in the dim light looked vaguely bemused, as if he couldn’t quite fathom the notion of any man or beast _not_ fearing him.

“Anyway,” said Loki, rolling on to his back, “we don’t even know if it _is_ a monster. It could just be some sort of plague, brought by travellers across the sea. If that’s the case we’re all at risk. And unlike some – ” _Unlike me,_ he thought, with the now-accustomed trace of bitterness. “ – your life is not expendable.”

Thor snorted. “Flatterer.”

“I’m being serious.”

“I know you are,” said Thor. The space between their beds was sufficiently narrow that he was able to reach across and clumsily pat Loki’s shoulder, mostly hidden under the thin blanket. Loki tensed, but the touch was gone as soon as it had arrived. “This is no sickness,” Thor said, and turned to face him. His face was half in shadow, half not. “Something’s killing these people. I’m certain of it.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“No, I can’t.”

“But you still want to help them.”

“Naturally I want to help them,” Thor said, innocently bewildered. “Don’t you?”

Loki turned his head to the side so that Thor couldn’t see his expression. “Yes. Of course.”

And there it was again – that strange catch in his throat, preventing him from swallowing properly. When he coughed quietly, the sensation only seemed to get worse. He sat up.

“Are you all right?” Thor said.

Loki tried to answer, but his response became a fit of coughing that he stifled with his elbow. It shuddered through him, making his throat hurt and his eyes fill up with water, and he felt a moment of panic as his chest tightened. He bent over, heaving desperately for air.

Thor sat up too, alarmed. “Loki?”

Loki sucked in as much breath as he could, then held it. The pain lingered, then slowly began to abate. “I’m fine,” he managed after a few seconds, and was relieved to find that he could speak again, although his voice was nearly gone with the strain. He coughed once more for good measure, exorcising the last of it. “Apologies. I’m all right. Really.”

But it was no good, and he could see in Thor’s eyes that he was worried: what if they’d been wrong? What if this _was_ a plague, something deadly and fast-acting that would take their company out one by one? “Don’t worry about it,” he said, foreseeing the question. “I had this before we started out. Must be a cold or some such.” The pressure in his throat was still there, but it was no longer choking him. He took a few more deep breaths, regaining his composure.

Thor wasn’t convinced by this. “You don’t get colds. _I_ don’t get colds. What is this really, Loki?”

“I don’t know, do I?” said Loki, irritated. “It’s nothing, Thor. Lie down.”

Obediently, Thor lay back down, but Loki could still feel his eyes on him. It was bothersome enough that he eventually tugged the blanket up over his head and shut his eyes tight, curling up. At least that way he could pretend he was the only one in the room.

The pretence didn’t last long. Unlike Loki, who always found far more trouble in going to sleep than he ever did in staying awake, Thor was almost catlike in his habits: all he needed was a soft and vaguely horizontal surface, and he was out for the count. Before long, the room was filled with the sound of snoring.

“’Keep a sharp eye out’,” he mimicked under his breath. “So much for _that.”_ But Thor did not wake, not even at the sound of his voice. 

Resigning himself to a long and sleepless night, Loki opened his eyes again and stared up at the ceiling. It was vaulted, made from slats of old wood that slanted upwards at crooked angles. The single window was lightless; he could not even see the stars through it, although it was a clear night. The black sky offered no questions and no answers.

Lying there, Loki found himself recalling their earlier visit to the tavern. It had been – disconcerting. People were friendly enough, and deferential, but there was an atmosphere of general unease underlying it all. They were afraid, and right to be. Whatever was happening here was like nothing he’d seen before. He wondered, briefly, if it had anything to do with the Norns. He’d cheated them; a decision made out of haste and anger, but not one that they were likely to forgive. Would they really punish a whole village for one person’s sins, though? It seemed unlikely. Then again, they were agents of chaos. Perhaps nothing was beyond them. 

Loki held a hand up in front of his face, turning it from side to side. In that dark, shadowed room, it looked almost blue.

“Disgusting,” he said aloud. His own voice sounded level, and eerily matter-of-fact. Beside him, his brother’s snores continued. Except that the man beside him was not his brother, not by blood. Never had been. Never would be. Loki dropped his hand and lay there, tense with misery.

Outside, very softly, someone was singing.

Loki heard it, but it didn’t register for a minute or so. When it did, he went very still and listened intently, staring into the darkness. He couldn’t hear any words, but it sounded like a child: that faint lisp, the high quavering pitch of it. Tense for an entirely different reason now, Loki carefully manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, thanking his stars that he’d gone to bed fully clothed. The bedclothes rustled slightly as he stood and moved over to the window.

The houses opposite were still, shuttered. The cobbled path was silver with moonlight. All was deserted.

But the singing continued, and now he could make out the words:

_“Poor little brother can’t say his prayers. Take him by the left leg, and throw him down the stairs.”_

A child’s ditty? Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that.

Before he could remind himself that it was a bad idea, Loki’s fingers were fumbling at the catch of the window. It opened silently, the air outside freezing and still faintly redolent of burning meat. If whoever was singing was outside – right out in the open – then something had to be done, and quickly. The villagers would not take it kindly if they knew that the King’s company had allowed a child to be slaughtered right outside their door.

He heaved the window wider, leaning out. As he glanced about wildly the song continued, its dull rhythm never faltering.

_“When he’s at the bottom, before he long has lain – Take him by the right leg, and throw him up again!”_

“Who’s there?” Loki called out, as softly as he was able.

The singing fell instantly silent.

He felt magic crackling at his fingertips, an instinctive response to danger, and clenched his fists to keep it back. The road was still empty. Now, though, he had the sense that there was something there. Unseen, and watching.

He had to close the window. Reaching for the catch, he began to pull it to – and suddenly the voice came again. It was faint but distinct. _“Don’t go! Please, I’m scared!”_

A child’s voice, certainly. But something about it felt…wrong. Why, he couldn’t say, but the urge to slam the window and leave things up to chance was stronger than ever. He resisted it, and called out into the night: “Go inside! It’s dangerous!”

There was a moment of silence. Then the voice spoke again, innocent and querulous. _“Mister,”_ it said, _“what’s wrong with your hands?”_

Loki glanced down. The scream got stuck in his throat.

The hands he had braced upon the windowsill were blue – not Jotun-blue, but a dark purplish bruise-blue, the colour of meat left out to go bad in the sun. The nails were black, with a rotten sheen. His skin was pared all over with narrow lines, forming complex patterns and spirals – and somehow they were _moving,_ worming their way along underneath his flesh. It didn’t hurt. He thought it might have been better if it had hurt. He stared down, the child outside forgotten entirely, and felt his gorge rise.

He must have made some sort of noise after all, because behind him the blankets shifted and he heard Thor’s voice, thick with sleep. “Loki? What are you doing?”

Loki was frozen in place. _Don’t look,_ he almost said, but his jaw felt locked in place. _Don’t come over, don’t look, please –_

“Loki?” Thor said again, sharper this time. The bedding rustled again and Loki heard his feet on the floor.

Seizing command over his body, Loki forced himself to turn around, keeping his hands behind his back. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead, under his arms, and his pulse was beating so fast that he was sure Thor would be able to see the butterfly motion of it as it jackhammered away at the base of his throat. “You’re up,” he said. It came out as a choked rasp.

Thor ignored the statement (as well he might; it was a particularly inane one). He stepped closer, and Loki fought to keep his face neutral. “What has happened?” he asked, low and urgent. “You cried out. I heard you.”

“I thought I saw someone outside,” Loki said. “It was – it was nothing. Jumping at shadows…” His voice was shaking so badly that it barely sounded like his own.

Thor ignored him completely and strode over, pulling the window closed. “Why did you open it?” he said to Loki. “Were you _trying_ to get us both killed?”

“I…”

Thor frowned at him. “And why are you doing that with your hands?”

_Mister, what’s wrong with your hands?_

Loki felt the sudden urge to clamp a hand to his mouth, to keep back the retch that was threatening to come up. Instead he twisted his head to the side, away from that steady gaze, and choked out, “Nothing! There – there’s nothing wrong with them.”

“Show me,” Thor pressed, moving nearer.

Loki shook his head violently, all words gone.

“Loki,” said Thor. “Please.”

His voice was damnably gentle. Loki hated it, and hated him. “You don’t want to see,” he managed. “Please, Thor. Go back to bed.”

Thor reached out; Loki shrank back against the wall, expecting – what? Thor had never struck him unprovoked; there was no logical reason for him to be afraid. Yet ever since the incident in the Vault, he’d felt as if he was walking a high wire. It was only a matter of time, said the soft malicious voice at the back of his head, until Thor realised what exactly he was dealing with here. Realised that his brother was nothing of the sort, and did what he had been born to do. He already suspected. If his suspicions were confirmed – _when_ they were confirmed – he would have to make a decision. Betray the kingdom by allowing an enemy of Asgard to exist in their midst, or betray the man who had tricked him into believing that they were kin.

Thor would pretend, perhaps, that the choice wasn’t an easy one. He was sentimental like that.

The image of Thor from his dream was still lingering behind his eyelids. This time, when he focused on it, it was slightly different than he remembered. Thor’s eyes weren’t alight with the thrill of conquest, and nor did he simply watch as Loki was exposed for what he was, his shame dragged out and flung at the feet of a jeering crowd. Instead, Thor held Mjolnir in both hands, raised up high, and his face was twisted in anguish at what he was about to do. Loki ached for him. _It’s all right,_ he told him silently. _I wouldn’t choose me either._

But all that was in the future, the product of imagination; and for now, no blow came. Instead, Thor clasped Loki’s forearms and tugged gently, manoeuvring them out from behind his back. Still dizzied by the path his own thoughts had taken, Loki allowed it. It wasn’t until his hands were in full view that he thought to look down.

The blue was gone.

No crawling lines, no pallid and decaying flesh. His hands looked as they had always looked – white and long-fingered, with the small scar on the second knuckle where his knife had slipped during training. He looked at them, and felt reality wobble slightly at the edges, as if in a desert haze.

Thor took Loki’s hands in his own and turned them over, interlocking their fingers. “You see?” he said, almost as if he was talking to a child. “There’s nothing wrong.”

 _But there was,_ Loki thought. _There was, I_ saw _it._ Then again…his sight had not been reliable, of late. “Apparently not,” he said softly, gaze still held by that expanse of pale, unmarked skin. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

Thor’s thumb brushed softly across the back of Loki’s hand, perhaps in an attempt to soothe. Loki could not bear to look at him. He knew what his expression would be: concern, for a brother who appeared to have lost his mind. Little did he know that the truth was far worse than madness. He kept his eyes lowered, his breathing steady. It was harder than it should have been.

“I shouldn’t have fallen asleep,” Thor said. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“If something had happened – ”

“But nothing did.”

“The window,” Thor. “It was open.”

Loki hesitated. Should he lie? No, that was pointless. In this, at least, he had nothing to hide. “I…might have heard something outside,” he said. “A child. Singing.”

“A child?” Thor’s brows drew together, that small crease forming in the middle. “But that doesn’t make sense. The villagers lock their doors at night.”

“I know. All the same, I heard it.” He left out the part where the child – if indeed it _was_ a child – had directly addressed him. That would open up far too many questions that he wasn’t prepared to deal with. He couldn’t even recall how the song had gone, now; it had ebbed from his mind, leaving nothing but that insistent rhythm beating out a drum behind his temples.

Thor unlaced their hands and went to the window, peering out. Behind him, Loki felt a sudden chill and shivered with it. His hands, now empty, hung uselessly by his sides. Was there a draught coming in through the roof? Or was it something else?

Thor turned back to him, bewildered. “There’s no one out there.”

“No,” said Loki. All of a sudden, he felt terribly tired. His legs were aching, and his eyes burned, although whether that was simple exhaustion or something more shameful remained to be seen. “No, I didn’t think there would be.”

Thor reached out and grasped his shoulder, hand burning as hot as a furnace through his thin shirt. “Try and get some rest,” he said. “Hrald may have said to keep watch, but there’s no excuse for both of us to go without sleep for the night. I promise I won’t drop off this time.”

“I’ve no worries in that regard,” said Loki. “If you do drop off, your snoring is sure to wake me up in no time.”

“I do not _snore,”_ Thor said, gravely insulted.

Loki gave him a look that conveyed (so he hoped) everything it needed to.

“All right,” said Thor in defeat, “all right, fine. Just…just go back to bed, will you?”

For once in his life, Loki had no qualms about obeying. He walked back to the bed on legs that felt suddenly too weak to support him, and half-fell on to it, curling up on his side. Beside him, he heard Thor doing the same.

For a moment all was quiet, save for their breathing. Then Thor said, in a half-whisper, “Loki?”

He groaned. “What is it _now?”_

A brief pause, then: “If you have another ill dream, will you promise to tell me?”

Loki couldn’t decide whether or not to be insulted. “You think I was dreaming?”

“I don’t know what I think,” said Thor. “All the same – will you tell me?”

Loki didn’t reply for a moment. Even if he had imagined it all, he was far beyond the age at which it was acceptable to come running to his brother after a nightmare, and the suggestion that he might want to do so was laughable. But it had been well-intended. “All right,” he said eventually, and closed his eyes.

The room was now almost pitch-black, and the wind made its walls creak gently like a shipwreck. Despite his tiredness, Loki lay awake for several minutes more, tracing his fingers along the lines that may or may not have been there. It was impossible to tell in the dark. Gradually his thoughts began to blur together, edging towards an uneasy slumber.

 _The payment is not yet completed,_ said a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Or perhaps it was three voices. Either way, he was asleep before he could think any more on it. 

The night went by without further incident, and when they rose with the dawn they found three more horses dead in the stable, their manes knotted and their muzzles white with foam.

 


End file.
